can't read my poker face
by ten.years.only.with.you
Summary: She kind of hates the way he makes her feel. Like she could be herself, not the person that she is supposed to be, expected to be. She can just be Quinn.


She kind of hates him the moment that kid-blonde hair swishes low into his turquoise eyes. He smiles like he knows her secrets and the top of his lip sticks to his teeth and she thinks it's kind of cute. But _damnit it all_, she's Quinn Fabray, and just because his grin goes all the way up to his laugh lines doesn't mean she is going to do this again.

She's not.

When Puck told her that he loved her, it was like some sort of flickering flame swelled in her rib cage for just a moment. But it was extinguished faster than she ever could have imagined when she found him lip-locked with Santana at Mike's party two weeks into summer vacation. She stood there pure, perfect, flawless in her pink lace baby doll dress and white ballet flats, golden hair cascading in loose waves down her back.

She willed not a single _fucking_ tear to crack her carefully applied make-up. No quiver from her tart cherry mouth. Just headstrong and confident, marching past and never looking over her shoulders. She learned quickly that there's a reason no one gives second chances, even though in theory, she had given him at least forty in the past year.

And now she is the head bitch in charge again, and she isn't going to jeopardize that just for, those laugh lines and turquoise eyes. She thought she knew herself better than being romanced under stars and planets by some guy with a guitar who spouted off lines about how amazing her eyes were. But here she is and he's leaning forward, and with one breath she is almost there again.

She likes how he apologizes profusely and stares at her with admiration even though she is reaming the _hell _out him. She shouldn't, but something about him feels remotely easy to be the girl she always wanted to be: pure, perfect, flawless. Maybe she wouldn't have to wear that uniform all the time or pretend to be that bitch that parts the hallway crowds like the Red Sea. Maybe she could wear pink lace and white ballet flats and her hair down.

But these kinds of thoughts are what got her in trouble in the first place. Still when he stares at her like she is dressed by baby birds in the morning like a real life fairytale, she wavers on the spot. And that is why she finds herself standing in front of the choir room, soft voice lulling in harmony, swirling her notes around his, and she is kind of surprised how much her complements her. And then he takes her hand...she skips a beat.

They win the competition. She is fairly sure by the quips of disbelief from Finn and Rachel that they threw the thing anyway in order to get Sam to stick around, slushie facials and all. Finn isn't conniving, stupid yes, but Rachel, well played. Except for the whole having to go out to dinner with the new boy who tells her that she has pretty eyes in the Avatar language. It doesn't matter anyway. She isn't going to do this again, not for laugh lines or turquoise eyes or kid blonde hair or for the fact that they complement each other musically.

The hurt is never going to outweigh the rest. She learned it with Finn. She learned it with Puck.

She hates Breadsticks. It's not because she doesn't love carbs. Unlike every other Cheerio, she learned from eating for two, that food is necessary. And bread and pasta is even more delicious than that crap she used to eat. And she likes the fact that, even though he orders chicken and vegetables, he doesn't act shocked when she orders a huge plate of fettuccine alfredo. He actually grins and then leans over the table and asks for a bite. It takes a bit more willpower than she's willing to admit, but he makes her laugh more than she should.

She nods shyly, and he lets out a booming chuckle that echoes in the loud room. But that's all the vulnerability she's going to allow to leak in right now.

They talk about school and glee. And when he asks why she, head bitch in charge, hangs out with the misfits of the social scene, she tells him the truth. He accepts her answer, and she knows that he understands. It's not difficult to do so, but she appreciates the fact that he isn't judging. He isn't judging for anything really.

She's been nothing but terrible to him: rude, stand-offish. She ordered _pasta_ for crying out loud, and he asked if she would sacrifice a bite or two, rather than stare at her scathingly. He really doesn't deserve the way she's been acting. And she knows it. Maybe it would have been better if he didn't look at her like she was this happy ending rolled into a package of pink lace and white silk. She loathes that look. It makes her feel vulnerable. Like it could be okay, but she knows better than anyone that it's_ not_ going to be okay.

He makes some joke about his hair and Matthew McConaughey. She snorts in disapproval about his bleach blonde, completely unnatural, locks. And then he smiles and she loses her train of thought. Placing a delicate hand on the gift certificate from Mr. Schue, she looks him dead set in those turquoise eyes.

"We're not going to use this. You're paying." She folds it inside of her purse and waits for his reaction. The brow furrows first and his eyes squint a bit in confusion.

"Why?"

She squares her shoulders a bit, masking her lack of confidence, covering that shyness she's been trying so difficultly to distract from. "Because a gentleman always pays on the first date." And a smirk twitches at the corners of her suddenly sweetened cherry mouth.

He flushes pink in the corners of his cheeks, kid-blonde hair swooping into those turquoise eyes and his grin goes all the way up to his laugh lines, lip sticking to his teeth a bit.

It may be worth it. May be.


End file.
